My Country Childhood

At the edge of the woods near where we lived growing up was a massive slab of rock. It grew out of the ground, level on one side, where it joined the pasture and the other edge being under the shade of the trees and several feet off the ground. Down a steep hill from our rock was a creek, where the water was ever-running and clear. Though it was near the road where traffic ran, the road was gravel and had little thru traffic. It was quiet and peaceful there on a summer afternoon, the rustling of the woods and the water gamboling over the rocks lining the creek bottom were musical. My family spent many hot, humid afternoons on that rock, cooking hotdogs over a homemade fire ring , the fuel burned down to glowing embers. Toasting marshmallows until they were burnt crisp on the outside and gooey on the inside. We collected small rocks and placed them into a circle to contain the fire. ( And also to keep little girls from stumbling into it). I remember gathering dead fall, small sticks and twigs to make a fire, with dry and decomposing leaves added for kindling. They were piled into a heap in the center of the big flat rock and one of the adults would light it, fanning the flames until all the wood had caught and was blazing. You don’t roast weenies over an open flame, but must wait until the fire had burned down, leaving nothing but glowing embers. After spearing the weenie with a thin stick, or as Daddy made us, metal coat hangers, straightened and saved for reuse each time we roasted out. Sticks, after all, were not always strong enough to support a fat hotdog without drooping too close to the coals, It was a given, ash and mustard did not taste well together.

We seldom used the requisite buns bought from the grocery store. We mainly used a loaf of white bread, slathered in mustard and ketchup and rolled around a length of charred hot dog. I can still see the little faces, slick with condiments, alight with the free and easy laughter of shared good times. There is no telling how many dozens of hotdogs we put away in this fashion. It was one of the highlights of our summer, costing little in the money, but rich in the stuff memories are made of. I still ride by that old home place, even now years later. The house where we lived has been torn down, new ones sprung up where once were nothing but grassy fields. The woods are overgrown and the rock all but covered over with underbrush and vines. But I know it is still there, in hiding, waiting for another generation of children to discover it’s secrets and enjoy the pleasures that last a lifetime.